(Where we last left off…)
Apogonos tried to put the dream out of his mind, but it haunted him and stalked him, day in and day out. He thought about it constantly. What would his life be like had be been born a girl? He thought about long hair and short, pierced ears and bare, he thought about bodies and curves and hair and muscle and fat, and he thought about himself, and who he wanted to be.
For the next ten years, those questions were never far from his mind. At the same time, he felt plagued by inaction – miserable as a prisoner in a body he did not want, and yet terrified of what giving voice to that desire might do. He told friends, who accepted his statements at face value but could offer no real advice or guidance. He told his parents, who smiled and nodded and, with great love, had no idea what to do about it or how to handle what their son was saying. He told the gods, who looked down in silence.
At last, at twenty, when he was supposed to be a man (and yet we know how often, at twenty, we are still but children) he set off on a journey to find his own path. The dream, now ten years past, continued to haunt his mind and he was unable to find a moment of peace or relief from its haunting message. Apogonos knew from years of pain that there was no help to be found in the town of his birth so with a pack and a farwell, he walked away from all he knew.
The road that ran parallel to the large inland lake near his home was well-traveled and safe. Periodically, he would catch a hint of blue from between the tree branches and see the sun shine off the surface of thr water. He walked for many days, occasionally passing fellow travelors or carts of trade goods, sleeping in a tent or – more often – under the stars.The time alone was time to think, but only solidified that which he already knew: He would find a way to recitfy Ares’ festering wound and deliver himself from manhood, or he would deliver himself to Hades and let the Lord of the Underworld deal with him as he would.
“You’re going to kill yourself? How melodramatic.”
In the years since his dream, and particularly in the years since puberty, Apogonos had developed an inner voice who conversed with him in the tone of a woman about his age. He thought of her – when he thought of her at all; her existance embarassed him to no end – as who he should have been. Who he would be, or die trying.
“Be quiet. I’m not going to kill myself. But I can’t live like this. You know that.” And she did, for she was him.
“Then do something about it. Let me be you instead of just yelling at you. Stop dancing around what you want and reach out to grab it!”
“I don’t know how!” And, as he had many times before, Apogonos wept himself to sleep.
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